A Nashville Collection (47 page)

“I understand.”

“If you can find out more, like a middle name, social, birth date, city last seen, shoot me an e-mail.”

“No paper trail, Jer.”

“Have it your way. Call me, then.”

Hanging up, I walk over to the window and gaze down into the city street, not sure I've done the right thing, but unwilling to call off the search. I'd envisioned this whole interview with Aubrey as one huge pain in the backside. But now . . .

13

“Scott Vaughn here for Inside the Music's special feature, ‘Inside the Diva Life,' an intimate look at the life of Aubrey James. Join us Monday mornings throughout September as I chat with the queen of country soul.”

Aubrey

Since the covered porch is airy and open, and the home of my never-used
built-in stainless steel grill,
Inside NashVegas
sets up outside for the cooking segment. There's even enough counter space for prepping and chopping.

The July day is blue and beautiful, and slightly cool for midmorning. The ceiling fans spin gently over our heads, stirring the breeze. Around us, Juan's garden blooms with an array of blues, yellows, greens, purples, reds, and pinks, trimming the green, thick lawn like a floral wreath.

I feel rested, even content. Last week's Sandlott concert was a blast—Jennifer Nettles so blows me away with her power pipes—and ticket sales raised over fifty thousand dollars for the city's youth athletic league. An excellent prize for such a comparatively small venue.

Car and I had a nice weekend just hanging around the house. The tension from me missing his parents' Fourth of July party has dissipated.

Then Dave Whitestone and I spent most of Monday discussing my new album and how to record it in a month.

“Nathan is not going to stand for me to do something different. He wants the standard Aubrey James album. Big voice. Drive-time appeal.” Dave shook his head. “I don't want to give up our idea. We can still get Aubrey James, queen of country soul, but with a different type of song. A different feel. I've met a new songwriter, Robin Rivers, and I got a hunch you two will connect. She's your lawyer's cousin, by the way.”

“Really? Skyler Banks has a songwriting cousin. She's holding out on me.”

“I heard Robin over at James Chastain's place—he's her biological father—and she blew everyone away. She's married to Janie Leeds's ex-fiancé, Lee Rivers.”

I gaped at Dave. “James Chastain has a daughter? The same Music Row legend who makes artists weep and songwriters gnash their teeth? How could a guy like that dare to have a daughter?”

Dave laughs. “Robin was raised by her mom and her
dad
in Alabama. Jim is a new development. Anyway, I'd like you to consider her.”

So Dave and I mapped out a plan to record an album in a month.

“Hey, you, over there. Daydreaming?” Scott's resonant voice breaks my reminiscing.

“A little.” I walk over to the grill where Gina is helping Scott set up. “Are we ready to cook?”

“Almost.” He looks into my eyes. “You all right?”

Swallow. The rich tone of his voice sends a warm tingle down the back of my neck. “I'm fine.”

Scott stands back and surveys the cooking set up. “Gina, I think we're ready. Chicken? Check. Portabellas, green peppers, scallions, yellow squash? Check. Tinfoil? Check. Spices, extra-virgin olive oil, grill? Check. Knives—”

“Phone to dial 9-1-1?” I hold up the portable. “Check.”

“Very funny.” Scott tightens the ties of his Kiss the Chef apron. “Who knew the diva had such a sense of humor?”

“Yeah, who knew? She's such a snot.” I slip on the only apron I could find. It was hanging on a hook in the back of the pantry. Gina doesn't wear an apron, and I certainly have no need of one.

“Never said that—” Scott stops, wagging his hand toward my off-white burlap apron. “Are you wearing that for the show?”

“Yes, why?”

“You look like a fajita.”

I retort by flicking white flour in Scott's face. Gina snickers while Piper laughs outright from her gallery seat—the wicker chair on the far side of the porch.

“Hey, don't shoot the messenger. I'm just saying . . .” Scott gestures to my apron again. “Fajita.”

I defend myself with a huff. “I happen to like fajitas.”

Scott gives the apron tie a gentle tug. “Yeah, me too.”

He makes my insides flutter again
. Scott Vaughn, what is it about you?
With a quick, jerky motion, I snatch up a knife. “What do I do?” My gaze roams the bowls of fresh vegetables.

“Hold on, let me do a little intro for our
Inside NashVegas
audience.” Scott smiles at Rafe's camera. “Three, two, one . . . For your Labor Day cookout, Aubrey James and I are going to show you how to make Scott Vaughn's easy fried chicken and veggies
on the grill
. Trust me, you're going to love it. Here's what we're going to do . . .”

I listen as Scott explains how to prepare the meat and the vegetables. He's so natural and confident in front of the camera, witty and real.

That's what I like about you.

He faces me. “Ready, Aubrey?”

With a quick smile, I nod. “Ready.”

Gina laughs behind her hand. “Scott, seriously, she burns water.”

“Hey, now.” I shake my knife at her. “I didn't burn the water, just the pan boiling the water.”

“What were you trying to make?” Scott asks.

“Tea,” I mumble.

“Tea? In a pan? And you burned it?”

With the camera on his shoulder, Rafe moves gracefully around us. “She did. I'm telling you, Scott, beware,” Gina warns.

Laughing, I wink at her. “Why do you think I keep you around?”

Scott drops a tomato and green pepper onto the cutting board. “Aubrey, cut these into quarters? Can you do
that
?”

I square my shoulders. “I'm not a complete imbecile.”

“Just in case . . .” Scott shoves me aside, reaching for the pepper. “Cut like this . . .”

His subtle clean fragrance mingles with the spicy aroma of the pepper, and without much thought, I lean against him to watch. It's crazy, I know, but I like being around him. He makes me feel . . . safe. He's sweet, kind, and funny, with very kissable . . . Stop.

I glance down at Car's ring, feeling ashamed. “S-so what are you saying? I'm sorry, I, um, lost my train of thought.”

“You . . . cut out the middle . . . like this . . .” Scott's words are punchy and low. “You . . . um . . . cut . . . like . . .
a-hem
. . . and . . .” He looks over at me. “And . . . Are you getting this . . .” Scott drops the knife and grabs his hand. “Man—”

“What happened? Are you all right?” I pry his hand away to examine his wound. Blood oozes down his finger.

“Here, let me.” Gina takes command, walking Scott inside to her mini medical center in the downstairs guest bathroom.

I follow. “Is it bad?”

“The cut is deep, but he won't need stitches,” Dr. Gina declares. “You disappoint me, Scott.” She dabs the away the blood with gauze before applying ointment and bandaging up the gash. “I expected this of Aubrey. Not you.”

Scott leans to see around her. “Yeah, me too.” He smiles. My heart jumps.

“I-I'll be on the porch.” Whirling around, I shake the image of his white smile from my mind's eye. Okay, I'm attracted to him. No big deal. Passing fancy. Just a pre-wedding crush.

In a few minutes, we're back on track, Scott's wound doctored and his dignity slightly restored. While he preps the meat and talks to the camera, I resume chopping veggies, careful to keep my fingers clear of the sharp blade.

“Scott, you don't mind if I just cut up the vegetables and not my hand, do you?”

He flicks flour at my face. “Coward.”

I duck away from the powdery cloud. “What happened to you looked painful.”

He laughs. “Never mind, just start cutting.”

Rafe zeros in on me as I cut my first veggie. “Here we go Nashville . . . Please, do
not
try this at home.” When faced with an uncomfortable situation, a certain goofy
savoirfaire
comes over me.

Setting a green pepper on the cutting board, I raise the knife over my head, and with a samurai warrior cry—“Hiya!”—I whack the pepper, execution style. The knife
thuds
against the cutting board, shooting the pepper halves across the porch like green bullets. One fires at Scott's head. The other wings across the porch, slapping into the wall before landing on the granite floor.

Rafe lowers the camera. “Holy cow, girl.”

“Mercy—” Gina inhales.

“Have you gone crazy?” Piper picks up the pepper half from the floor.

I cock my hip to one side. “I hate peppers.”

Scott's laughter fills the porch. Catching his breath, he reproves me with a raw chicken breast dangling from his hand. “All right, you, no more executing veggies. Got that?”

I stick my tongue out at him. “Spoilsport.”

We fall into a chopping and prepping rhythm while talking about our favorite dishes.

“My mom makes the best biscuits,” Scott says.

“My momma made a wonderful chili,” I say. “And hot buttery corn bread. We'd come home from school on a wintry day, our noses running, our cheeks red, and she'd have a fire in the fireplace, chili on the stove.” Closing my eyes, I breathe in. “The smell was wonderful and the house felt warm and cozy.”

The memory strikes me as some odd fairy tale. Wonderful but not true.

Scott draws a sheet of tinfoil from the box and tears it away, explaining to the camera. “Prepare your tinfoil with about two tablespoons of extra-virgin olive oil. Mix finely crushed bread crumbs—or flour, if you prefer—with your favorite spices. I use garlic and rosemary.”

He's mixing and rolling. I ask, “What do I do?”

“You're going to make tinfoil boats for the veggies.” With quick hands, he demonstrates for me and the
Inside NashVegas
viewers how to make tinfoil boats. “Add the olive oil, salt and pepper, fresh garlic, and seal them shut.”

Concentrating on the tinfoil boats, I realize I'm actually enjoying this grill-out day. “Now what?”

“We're ready to grill. Aubrey, why don't you do the honors?” Scott gestures to the shiny grill-beast. “Fire it up.”

Fire it up?
Sure. Not a problem. Except
how
to fire it up. Wiping my hands down the sides of my apron, I consider the knobs and buttons. Rafe follows me, zooming in on my confusion. Scott watches and waits. Gina and Piper huddle in the corner, holding back their big grins.

For about sixty seconds, I simply stand there, perplexed, then look back at Gina. “How's it work?”

Scott gasps. “You're kidding.”

I shake my head. “Wish I was.”

He motions for me to step aside, rubbing his hands together. “Let the expert.” Facing the grill, he mutters, “Let's see. A grill is a grill.”

“It's tricky,” Gina calls.

Studying the knobs, Scott points to one. “Turn this to Light, see? And then press this button to ignite.”

I nod. “Turn to Light, press this to ignite. Got it.”

He stoops down and opens the front panel doors. “I'll open the gas valves.”

“Okay. Say when.” I poise my finger. Light and ignite.

“ The valve is stuck. When did you use this last?”

“Gina?” I ask, my finger still hovering over the button.

“Last summer, maybe. It's been a while,” she says.

“The valves are slightly rusted. Don't turn the knob to Light yet.” Scott stoops lower, his face even with the grill rack. “Almost . . . okay, Aubrey, you can—”

I turn the dial to Light.

“Now, just—”

I mash the Ignite switch.

Poof! Fire explodes from the grill bed, consuming the racks . . . and Scott. He falls to the granite floor with his face buried in his hands.

I drop to my knees next to him. “Oh my gosh, are you all right? I'm so sorry!”

“Burns . . .”

I press my hands over my middle, horrified. “Oh, Scott. I'm so sorry. Are you okay?”

Gina gently moves me out of the way. “Put this over your eyes, Scott.” She hands him a damp cloth.

“Scott, I didn't mean it—” My apology is punctuated with short gasps. I feel ill. What if he'd been seriously hurt?

“Let me see.” Gina pries the cloth away from his face.

A deep pink colors his face, accented with black smudges. And . . . “Oh, man.” Rafe lowers the camera.

“What?” Scott asks, wincing as he shifts his gaze from Rafe's to me. “What?”

Rafe shakes his head with a guttural sound.

Shoving himself off the porch floor, Scott dashes inside. I look at Piper, and try as we might, we cannot hold our laugh.

In the next moment, Scott's broad shoulders fill the porch doorway. “Aubrey James, you seared off my eyebrows.”

14

When Car arrives home after another downtown SoBro development dinner
, I'm in bed, e-mailing.

“Finally . . . home.” When he leans to kiss me, jerking his tie loose, George growls low, baring his teeth.

“Stop,” I hiss at him, setting my laptop aside, returning Car's kiss. “How'd the dinner go?”

Car tosses his keys and pocket change onto the dresser. “Too many people with too many opinions.”

At his closet, he stuffs his white shirt into the dry cleaner bag. “By the way, Mom wants tea with you tomorrow at three.”

“What?” I look up from nuzzling George. “Just like that? Come to tea tomorrow?” I point to the clock. “It's after ten p.m., Car.”

“Brie—”

“Car, she can't summon me like I'm one of her servants. Tomorrow at three? What if I'm busy?”

“Are you?”